


The Bodyguard

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bully Zachariah, Bullying, Castiel/Dean Winchester Flirting, First Meetings, Fluff, High School, Humor, Jock Zachariah, Light Angst, M/M, Mary Lives, Protective Dean, References to Sex, Verbal Abuse, Writer Castiel, cursing, mention of divorce, mild flirting, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: The boy’s eyes flicker to Zach, who’s moseying down the hallway and handing out high-fives like money. When he doesn’t say anything, Cas rambles on, “Don’t worry, it happens a lot—I mean, if you are worrying. You're definitely cuter than most people I've been pushed into." ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! "Sorry, I don't know why I—""This happens a lot?"Cas’s eyes widen. If that voice can’t cut through the toughest stains, nothing advertised on television will. “No—I mean... yeah, it does, but—”“Kay, cool, thanks,” the boy says, moving past Cas in a determined stride.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I want to go on record and say I try to steer clear of stereotypes in my writing, but Zachariah is just one of those characters I feel would use his height and status to his advantage like he has in canon. And jocks typically have a higher status in a school setting. I understand and recognize not every jock is a bully. I actually see playing a sport as an amazing feat. I can barely lift a pencil. :P
> 
> Alright, now onto the fic you go!

 

One shove. One shove is all it takes to throw Castiel off balance.

Zachariah doesn’t look intimidating. Notwithstanding his six-foot stature, he looks like more of a class clown than a jock with a head closer resembling a hardboiled egg depressing when he frowns or sneers. His eyes creep Cas out the most. They’re beady, like a fly eyeing shit. Cas never knows how he always has a girl hanging from his arm. The popular ones too, Naomi, Rachel, Hester—even Anna, who’s a freshman.

“Watch where you’re going, _Nasty_ iel,” Zachariah taunts after Cas stumbles into the boy in front of him.

The boy turns around and yanks out his headphones, which, Cas can identify from being Balthazar’s brother, blares AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”. Cas immediately gulps because holy shit, this guy has twice the mass on Zach in his arms alone, even though he’s not much shorter than Zachariah. He shares all the same physical attributes, really, except he has a normal-shaped head and hair to compliment it. It’s wispy, like evergreen grass, and mocha-colored.

He blinks, causing long lashes to fan over emeralds, and purses his plush pink lips.

“’m sorry,” Cas mumbles shyly. “Zach is a flaring asshole. I’ll never say that to his _face,_ but still.” The boy’s eyes flicker to Zach, who’s moseying down the hallway and handing out high-fives like money. When he doesn’t say anything, Cas rambles on, “Don’t worry, it happens a lot—I mean, if you _are_ worrying. You're definitely cuter than most people I've been pushed into." **ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!** "Sorry, I don't know why I—"

"This happens a lot?"

Cas’s eyes widen. If that voice can’t cut through the toughest stains, nothing advertised on television will. “No—I mean... yeah, it does, but—”

“Kay, cool, thanks,” the boy says, moving past Cas in a determined stride.

Now it’s Cas’s turn to swing around. “Woah, what’re you doing?”

The boy purses his lips again and his eyes roll upward in mock-thought. “I’m gonna kick his ass, but you’re right, that’s too impersonal. I _could_ swipe his keys… or his wallet.” His eyes blow wide at this, and a smile graces his face. “How much allowance do you think daddy gives him? I’m betting enough to treat that persistent hemorrhoid problem of his.”

Cas scoffs, “Wow, that would be a classic case of—”

“Poetic justice?” the boy laughs as he offers out a hand. “Dean. Dean Winchester. Cas, right? You’re in my Poetry class, fifth period.”

Cas accepts the hand with a small smile. Small, because most of his blood is flowing to the _wrong_ parts of his body. Damn being seventeen. “Yeah. I’ve gotta say, though, you certainly don’t look like the poetic type.”

“C’mon, leather jacket, square jaw, brooding and pensive expression…” Dean laughs, almost instinctively pulling on said coat. “You’re right. I actually suck at poetry. And writing in general. I’m taking it with Drivers Ed for the full credit. I’ve been dying to get behind my dad’s ’67 Chevy Impala after I helped build her from the ground up after a bad accident. Between you and me, I’m most excited to lay a blanket on the backseat and break ‘er in.”

Dean ducks his head to hide a blush and clears his throat. “Anyway, now that we’ve both properly embarrassed ourselves, it’s settled on one thing: I’m walking with you to your classes from now on.”

Cas’s mouth runs like a leaky faucet, dripping with the possibility of words, but leaving mostly unoccupied air. “It's okay, really,” he says. “I mean, I might get teased more, having a bodyguard."

"Then consider me a friend... with muscular benefits."

Cas’s face scrunches in attempt to stifle a laugh. He fails. “ _Muscular_ benefits?”

“Hey, I can bench press one-eighty for thirty reps,” Dean argues.

“I have no idea what you just said, but sure,” Cas says, “you can walk with me, _friend with muscular benefits_.”

***

And he does. Dean walks with Cas from his morning classes—even the ones not on Zach's hit list—to his car after school, a '78 Lincoln Continental Mark V.

His taste in automobiles makes Dean laugh. Cas isn’t sure why. He's a writer though, so it's possible he spends more time picking up a pencil over social cues. But whatever, he likes his car. It’s a gas muncher, and the previous owner cashed in a lot of mileage, but he likes it. And his car likes Dean, because sooner than later, there's a depression in the passenger's seat where Dean's ass is supposed to be.

Zach hasn't bothered Cas in two weeks. At first, he laughs and points at Cas seeing the addition to his one-man posse. Then Dean takes his finger and somehow manages to pretzel Zach's entire arm around his neck.

Everyone around him whips out their phones quicker than a gunslinger at dawn. Some even clap, glad to see the undefeated finally, though temporarily, defeated. One of them he knows through Dean as Benny Lafitte, who’s two-hundred pounds dry. Benny keeps an eye on Cas when Dean’s absent, which hasn’t happened yet. Benny tells Cas it’s the longest time since freshman year Dean’s kept solid attendance.

“Alright, alright,” Zachariah surrenders. Upon seeing Cas’s nod from behind him, Dean slides his vice grip off the quarterback. Then he chuckles, “You know, Winchester, we could use an arm like yours on the team.”

“No thanks,” Dean spits, standing beside Cas again. “Call me old-fashioned, but I’m not interested in being on the receiving end of your bullshit.”

Zachariah takes a step forward, bottomless eyes squaring on Cas. “Fine. Have fun playing House.”

“I will. Have fun showering after practice. Remember to lather.”

Zachariah squints at that, but before he can say anything, Dean’s guiding them away. Once they’re safely at the other end of the hall, out of earshot, Cas drops his head. “What did you do?”

“Hey, I did him a favor: He won’t have to worry about pubic lice for a few months.”

A laugh mounts Cas’s throat. He hopes he doesn’t look too love-struck as he retorts, “You’re amazing.”

Dean shrugs and slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Dean works fine.”

“Dean, I um…” Cas bites his lip, knowing what he’s about to say could potentially threaten this… whatever it is. He feels like a car approaching a two-way turn on a crowded road. He has to turn one of his blinkers on soon, or be publically condemned. “Are you sure _I’m_ not the pain in the ass?”

Dean’s eyebrows level like closed road signs. “Cas, why would you say that?”

Cas shrugs lamely. "I don't know… I can't stand up for myself, so I have to designate someone to do it for me."

"You never designated shit, Cas. Hey, look at me," Dean says, grabbing him by the shoulder. That's the thing: Cas should be scared. Dean's hands are a weapon—or can be used as one, anyway. But it actually makes him feel safer than he ever has. "This is my choice, alright?"

"Why?” Cas inquires. There's no spite behind it, just plain curiosity. "Why me?"

"Because… you're definitely cuter than most people who’ve pushed into me." Cas's mouth parts, but before he can say anything, a mischievous glint glitters in Dean's eye. "Even if your car is a dinosaur."

"Oh, so _that's_ what this is about," Cas says, nodding his head as he somehow manages a grin. For a second, which is probably longer than Dean cares for his expression to last, Cas swears he sees fear. "My car is eleven years younger than your future car, fuck you very much."

Dean breathes a laugh, that, if it were a rock, would skip a few times before eventually sinking under, "Age discrimination is a real offense, you know."

"They're just cars."

"Now you're dehumanizing."

Cas rolls his eyes before his lips start to wilt again. "Sorry. I do appreciate your having my back. It's just frustrating. I've just never been good at handling any situation outside of a literary one."

"And you shouldn't have to," Dean emphasizes with a small smile followed by a slap on the shoulder. "C'mon, let's get you to class. I know how Roman takes to latecomers; I had him for Social Economics last semester."

***

As the next few weeks progress, Cas sees more of Benny and less of Dean.

With each dozenth text, Cas receives the cryptic reply: _Everything’s ok, I promise. Focus on school. One of us has gotta get into college._

He tries to get something out of Benny, but the guy’s as solid as his figure. He’s also nice enough to make small talk to Cas’s classes, but for the most part they walk in silence. Especially since, Cas also takes note, Zach is MIA, too. Eventually, he puts two and two together, and by third period, he’s antsy. Ms. Tate asks him in confidence if he needs to excuse himself, even though Cas reassures he’s fine. And to be perfectly honest, if he takes her up on her get-out-of-jail-free card, he would take his thimble _way_ off the Monopoly board.

He has to see Dean. He has to know he’s alright.

Not wasting another second, he practically darts to the parking lot after Poetry is over.

Ten minutes later, he’s at Dean’s house, which is a two story, blue and white infrastructure that looks way scarier at night with the thorny arms of the dead oak tree in the front casting a show across the side of the house. Dean’s future ’67 Chevy Impala isn’t in the driveway, so Cas pulls in until he can’t see the top of the brick chimney. He’s hoping Dean’s mother is there over his father. The man seems nice enough, but he unnervingly reminds Cas of a basset hound with those all-seeing, all-knowing brown eyes.

Luckily, Mary is the one who answers the door. She smiles and pulls Cas into a hug the first chance she gets.

“I was wondering when you’d visit Dean,” she says once he’s through the threshold. “He’s been talking about you non-stop, but he can’t go back to school until his suspension’s lifted.”

“What happened?” Cas presses, hating the urgency in his voice, even though he has to know. “Is he okay?”

Mary shakes her head with a wry and tired smile. “He had an altercation with a boy at school. He didn’t talk much about it, just that he was bothering you. Dean took most of the hits. He’s fine for the most part, though that boy’s been mixed in the head as I can remember. Men, so territorial.” She pauses to collect herself and magically transform into the mom fairy again: “Would you like anything to eat or drink? Maybe lemonade? I just baked a fresh pie.”

Cas’s chest tightens. “No thank you, Mrs. Winchester… I, uh, just want to apologize for my behavior.”

“ _Your_ behavior?” Mary says, laughing. “I appreciate the thought, Cas, but it should be my son making the apologies. But I understand. He’s been especially on-edge with the divorce. It’s hard on all of us.”

Divorce. Huh. Dean hasn’t told him about that. “Well,” Cas says, “if there’s anything I can do—”

“You can start by getting your ass up here.”

Cas turns around to the sight of Dean at the top of the stairs. His face looks like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s cousin, the way his cheeks are engorged, particularly on the left side where a long gash runs from his temple over his swollen-shut eyelid and across his cheekbone just above his stubble. The other side is starting to bruise purple, and despite the split in his swollen lip, he’s grinning ear-to-ear.

Dean starts once they’re in his room, “Look, I can explain: Zach caught me with my pants down—literally, I was taking the biggest piss of my life—and pinned me against the wall and threatened to hurt you bad, so I—”

Before Dean can finish, Cas surges forward and seals their lips together, careful not to press too hard. For a whole second, Cas panics and begins to draw back, feeling imminent danger for the first time in a whole month, but then Dean pulls him back in with his arms around him, and kisses back, and nothing feels safer.

They stay in embrace until Cas pushes Dean lightly towards his double bed. “What’re you doing?” Dean asks abstractedly, looking up at Cas, who’s shrugging out of his trenchcoat.

Cas just smiles: "It's my turn to watch over you, Dean."


End file.
